


Morning Light

by Killmewhenuseeme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Mornings, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 20:44:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10395699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killmewhenuseeme/pseuds/Killmewhenuseeme
Summary: The whole scene is awash in bright, antiseptic sunlight.  It feels hazy and incorporeal, like a picture from a story book for kindergartners that's just beginning to fade from being flipped to too often.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written many years ago and I've decided to finally import it from my slowly dying phone and post it. It's not very good but enjoy.

John is reminded at times that life is a comedy of errors when Sherlock has done something so immensely stupid that he has to count backwards from ten, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white and hope to God that Sherlock isn't dead again or hope that he himself won't kill him. This has become an annoying and, more frighteningly so, a recurring feeling and that's just not on, thanks very much. He wants, no he needs, this... affection? Emotion? (And dare he say it) Lust? Whatever it is it has to stop.

Sherlock chooses at this moment, in his infinite wisdom, to swan into view, his silk dressing gown flaring out behind him like wings. He settles down on the chair and looks at him expectantly, as though he believes John will magic some breakfast out of the air and present it to him. John has the sudden urge to strangle him, punch his perfect cheekbones, knock sense into his guileless eyes.He doesn't though through sheer self control and merely passes him a cold piece of toast, his hands steady and movements deliberate. Sherlock wrinkles his nose but does not refuse. It is almost domestic. A sleepy-eyed Sherlock nibbling on buttered toast as John pretends to read the paper, the whole scene is awash in bright antiseptic sunlight. It feels hazy and incorporeal, like a picture from a story book for kindergarteners that's just beginning to fade from being flipped to too often. Like Sherlock didn't just die and come back into his life with the suddenness and violence of a summer storm.

  
This is maddening. The slow crunch of bread mixing with the noise from the outside with the tumultuous thoughts inside John's head. Sherlock looks up at him, his forehead creased in confusion - the obtuse git has finally caught onto John's mood. He wants to take Sherlock by the shoulders and shake him and kiss his pretty mouth until it's a rather fetching shade of red... And Christ, he's not supposed to think about that. Not about any of that. He has some respect. He is in control.

  
It's such a joke that John feels a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat but he suppresses it.

  
Sherlock hasn't stopped staring, his green-grey-brown-yellow-in-the-morning-light eyes are locked directly against his as he tries to parse away the mystery before him. John feels that it is exceptionally ironic that Sherlock need only look at the mirror to find the root of every single one of his problems.

  
“Is there something on my face then?” John asks, the very picture of calm curiosity, his mind filled with all that he is trying not to think about.

  
Sherlock frowns further and stands up, leaning over the table so that he can look closely at John. The pale column of his throat is extended, the beauty spot right over the jugular vein is near enough that he could move a little bit forward and kiss it, nibble it with his teeth... John blinks. It was not the time to get distracted.

  
“You're aroused. ‘’ Sherlock said, astonished by his own deduction. He huffs out a curious little sigh that feels warm against John's face. John can barely think straight anymore, the proximity to Sherlock robs him of this ability. It reminds him of something in one of his grade school science books: attraction is inversely proportional to the distance squared - perhaps his intelligence is too.

John can't find it within himself to care enough to even blush anymore, "So?” He says as if he were remarking about something as mundane as the weather. His mind is hazy and he feels oddly disconnected from his body.

  
Sherlock seems even more confused by this and John can't be arsed enough to honestly deal with this so early in the morning and simply leans up and kisses him, his lips warm against Sherlock's unmoving ones. The kiss is unbearably chaste, the kind of virginal sweetness one associates with young children who offer each other picked wild flowers, candy rings and promises of fidelity when they aren't even old enough to tie their shoelaces.

  
“Have you figured out why?” John asks as he breaks contact, his breath whispering over the sensitive skin beneath Sherlock's jaw, his eyes sparkling.

  
Sherlock's breath hitches and he turns his face to look down at John, wide-eyed and confused. It slowly begins to dawn on him what exactly has transpired and two pale pinks spots of color appear at the very tops of his cheeks. John cannot help but smile - lopsided and absurd.

  
Sherlock chooses at that moment to destroy all of John Watson's expectations and the rest of his brain function by leaning down with a kind of jerky immediacy that underscores desperation to press his lips against the shorter man's. This kiss is far more passionate and chaotic. Sherlock appears to be attempting to push himself as close to John as possible in spite of the table separating the two. His lips are soft and demanding, unyielding yet so very plush that John feels that he will drown - - in the scent and feel and movement of a self-proclaimed madman. When they reluctantly disengage, John notices that Sherlock pupils are blown wide and dazed.

  
John stands, startling Sherlock from his reverie, and moves away from the table. He pulls Sherlock close and runs his hands down the smooth planes of the taller man's back. The height difference between them makes John have to reach up on the tips of his toes to gently guide Sherlock back into a kiss. It is hot and wet and somehow Sherlock has managed to stick his tongue inside John's mouth and it is glorious. John lets out a small moan and worries Sherlock's lower lip. His hands are twisted into Sherlock's unruly curls that are just as soft as he imagined. Perhaps, John wonders, he has died and this is a special sweet heaven, a repayment for the countless nights where he lay awake, plagued with the image of a dark silhouette against a grey-blue sky.

  
Sherlock is massaging his tongue against John's palette, pushing it past the shorter man's teeth and licking into the wet cavern of his mouth. John can't seem to breathe but by this point he can scarcely care. He is intoxicated by lips, soft hair and the press of a strong chest against his own. Sherlock's hands are gripping his hips pressing them flush against each other. He can feel the warm outline of Sherlock's dick through the thin material of his pyjamas and the air is sucked out his lungs and he is seeing stars. His own cock twitches in the confines of his pants and he rocks his hips against Sherlock’s thigh in sympathetic arousal.

The slight canting of his hips causes Sherlock to whimper audibly into his mouth. The urge to breathe has gotten so strong that John pulls away from Sherlock's oh-so-addictive lips and pants; a thin line of spit connects their bruised mouths to each other and John looks up to see Sherlock looking absolutely wrecked. The detective's pupils are impossibly large, leaving twin ice blue rings around deep pools of black. His face is flushed and his lips look warm and red and abused. John rubs his face against Sherlock's chest, overcome with desire and pushes his hand between them, he palms the outline of Sherlock's prick and notices that he is probably the hardest he's ever been. Sherlock keens at the friction and pushes his hips forward, his head is thrown back and John can't help but kiss the elegant line of his throat as he teases Sherlock. A small patch of wetness has formed at the front of Sherlock's pyjamas and John's mouth waters. He kneels down before his mind can catch up with his actions, studiously avoiding his own lust and the protesting pain in his legs.

  
Sherlock notices his movement and looks down, the man seems incapable of fully processing the sight of John Watson on his knees before him, and so he stares, a little dumbly, as John pulls down the top of his trousers and releases his cock into the cool air of the room. It is long and thin, curving upwards and ever-so-slightly to the right. And previously believed completely heterosexual John Watson has absolutely no idea what to do when confronted with another man's cock but Sherlock is looking at him with such desperation and interest that he leans forward and licks a bead of precome from the tip. That very action causes Sherlock's cock to jerk slightly against his mouth and he hears a stifled moan from above. Encouraged by Sherlock's approval John licks tentatively downwards from the head to the base. Sherlock’s hand finds its way into his hair and he glances upwards through his eyelashes to glimpse Sherlock looking at him, completely transfixed. The attention causes him to blush.

Hesitantly, John takes the head into his mouth, his lips wrapped obscenely around the what, and pushes his tongue against the slit. Sherlock's hips jerk upwards and John is suddenly choking on Sherlock's dick. He pulls away, panting and sees Sherlock looking at him apologetically but lust hazed. John is more prepared the second time and grips Sherlock's hips, pinning them in place.

He's more confident now. Sucking and licking and rubbing, pornographic wet noises coming from the open mouth kisses he's placing all across Sherlock's member. He feels powerful like this, a velvet hard dick in his mouth, watching Sherlock fall apart above him. He can feel the way Sherlock's knees quake every time he hollows his mouth and sucks. Remembering an old girlfriend, he slowly takes in an as much of Sherlock as he can and begins humming, and tries making an intricate figure eight on the vein running down the bottom of Sherlock's prick. Sherlock tastes like sweat, skin and salty bitterness, the underlying smell of musk and chemicals creating a unique contrast between the senses. John is helplessly aroused as Sherlock shakes above him. Quiet, muffled moans escaping into the stillness of morning.

"Fuck." Sherlock whispers, voice raspy and at least an octave below normal. He sounds like honeyed sin and John steadily begins bobbing his head up and down just to hear him moan. He is rewarded by a strained paean of his name, falling from Sherlock's lips like a prayer. A desperate repetition of, "John, oh God please, John. John faster. Yes. _Nnnghh_ …just like that John."

It devolves into filth, a murmured litany of desire. "Don't stop, please. Feels amazing. Fuck me, John, fuck me." At that John stops, eliciting a whine from Sherlock, so much blood had been redirected to his dick that he's dizzy. It is pushing against the fly off his trousers and can no longer be ignored. He pushes his zipper open letting his cock into the air and begins jacking it slowly, precome lubricating his way. Sherlock's has stopped complaining about the sudden lack of a warm mouth on his member and seems transfixed by the sight of John Watson on his knees on the hardwood floor, lips red and wet from sucking dick, stroking his cock. It is debauched and lewd and very very good. Eventually, John begins blowing Sherlock again, cheeks hollowed in suction, his own a hand a blur on his dick.

He is so very close now, he'd barely needed any stimulation to get this close and the thought of coming with Sherlock's prick down his throat made a pool of warmth uncurl in his stomach. Sherlock's words have devolved into a series of small, bitten back sounds and groans. John can feel the tension building in Sherlock's abdomen, the barely controlled movement of his hips attempting to fuck into John's mouth. John manages to get Sherlock's dick deep enough that he swallows around it and suddenly Sherlock is coming in deep, salty spurts into John's mouth, trailing down his chin. The taste of Sherlock on his tongue causes John's vision to blur and he climaxes so hard that he sees only white.


End file.
